Spectrum
by Consume
Summary: When Hermione travels back in time and kills Tom Riddle, the destruction of evil becomes an addiction she can't sate. Follow Hermione as she extracts her revenge...slowly. ONE-SHOT Time-Travel. DARK! RATED-M. R&R.
1. Pesky Purebloods

Spectrum

By: Consume

One-Shot: Who cares if she killed Tom Riddle as a child! She shouldn't be prosecuted, she should be praised! She was a hero. I thought of turning it to a full story and was like "Nah!" This gets really dark towards the end so beware.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the fantastic world created by Jo Rowling.

_August 2__nd__ 2003_

_It was rather simple to do, when she thought back to that night…_

Hermione was jaded, bitter and out for revenge.

Harry and Ron had been dead for five years, along with most of her close friends. The Weasleys were broken and split up around the world and just yesterday Molly had finally died from the unknown spell that had been causing her slow torture. Her pain was partly Hermione's fault due to the fact she refused to take her off of her life support spells.

Voldemort won that May of 1998 and with his victory came a large splash of reality that soaked Hermione to the core. _She had no one. _All the people that completed her were gone, her boys were gone, her parents were gone –she couldn't possibly seek them out when they were to go into war again. So she ran, she hugged the corpses of both of her boys and ran. Her enchanted bag was in one hand and her wand in the other. She was officially on the run again

She was on the run for three long, lonely years. Her mind was in complete solitude and she was sure she had lost her mind after the 1st year. There was a bounty on her head and after the 2nd year she had given up trying to obliviate each and every person that sighted her –it raised too many risks that she wasn't willing to take. So she killed them, she killed each and every one of the Death Eaters that tried to catch her, the Death Eaters that now ruled above muggles and low-bloods (as they were called frequently). And she felt no regret over her actions because _they all deserved it._

A year ago she had found her time turner laying in a case beneath her old textbook and that was when she had started her experiments. She had to stop all of this before it happened. She invested so many months with the time-turner, creating lethal spells and runes that were shamelessly dark magic.

Today she had finally succeeded.

A regular time-turner could only go back a couple of hours but with runes, that were surprisingly simple for her, she had rearranged it to go back years, the full extent she didn't know.

Hermione pulled time-turner over her limp hair and it was now dangling around her neck, swinging back and forth ominously. Her hands were shaking and her heart was racing.

This was it. She would see Harry and Ron albeit she would be _old_. But it didn't matter, she could give Harry the childhood he deserved and the deaths from all the wars could be avoided. There was no turning back now.

Hermione pointed to the time turner with her wand and it began spinning furiously. The world around her was a blur.

She closed her eyes.

* * *

"Oi! Watch it woman!"

Hermione clenched her jaw, "I'm sorry, sir," she spat out. The crowd was slowly wearing away at her psyche, it had been long since she had even had human contact and to have so much all at was petrifying.

'_Don't touch me! Don't touch me!' _She begged the inclosing crowd in her mind.

"Of course you are," the man said before turning to walk away.

"Wait!"

The man turned around, straightening his suit in the process and a leering smile on his face, "Yes?"

"Would you happen to know where," Hermione pulled out a bit of parchment and read it, "Wool's Orphanage is?"

The man's smile dropped, "Take a left from here and go straight."

Hermione smiled politely but scowled when the man turned around. Hermione had arrived to the time 1935 yesterday and she could say already she hated this society more than the one she came from. Not only were women looked down upon not to mention the Nazi regime but the clothes were horrible to move around in, so she stuck with her cloak.

By this time she knew that Tom Riddle was about nine years old and had a great hold over his magic already.

When Hermione reached the Wool's Orphanage gates she avoided going through the front entrance of the actual building, instead she opted to walk around the back, and there a surprising sight greeted her.

A child was holding a dead rabbit with a pleased grin and there was string in his other hand. Hermione wanted to curse all the gods for blessing this child with the human personification of beauty for a face! Tom Riddle had to be the most beautiful child she had ever laid her eyes on, aside from the malicious grin; Hermione understood just how easy it was for him to gather followers. Not only did he have looks, but later on he would have the smarts and the power.

Immediately Hermione began feeling regret –she couldn't kill a child. It just wasn't in her nature…but she had changed, she had changed a long time ago and she just couldn't afford another war.

Hermione raised her wand discreetly, "Hello, Tom Riddle," she said clearly, only a few feet away from the child.

Immediately the boy dropped the bunny and put on a mourning face that would have fooled the coldest of hearts, "Mam, H-hello," he stuttered. Tears –actual tears! –coming to his eyes. But in his eyes Hermione also saw suspicion as clear as day and he was eyeing Hermione's worn robes in confusion.

"My friends rabbit p-passed…If you don't mind me asking mam –Who are you?" there was a hidden order to the question.

Hermione tilted her head to the side, "My name doesn't matter."

Like a switch the innocent expression turned deadly, "Who –are –you?! Are you here to take me away –I'll scream lady! I swear to it!"

She almost gasped aloud when she felt the probing of Legilimency in her mind.

"My name doesn't matter," Hermione repeated as she raised her wand.

"You're mad! A stick? You think you can hurt me with a stick! I'll hurt you! –"

"I can do this," Hermione murmured to herself.

"–It's not working…Your blocking me, you're like _me_…"

"I AM NOTHING LIKE YOU!"

And now there was real fear in Tom Riddle's eyes, "Please, mam…"

"_Avada Kedavra."_

* * *

Years later and Hermione still felt no regret.

It was just so simple to point her wand and end the existence of the man –boy who had caused her so much pain. It actually felt _good. _Yet that feeling still didn't explain why she yearned to feel good again. To control someone else's life and end it _just like that_. So she did, she sought out those that wronged her in the future and dealt with them but the problem was that they weren't born. So she wiped out their ancestors instead.

She sometimes called herself a psychopath but she would then realize she did nothing wrong. She actually did _good_ for the world, she was saving the wizarding world from war, she was saving them from the torture, the deaths they would have to endure.

Maybe she enjoyed it a little too much –like when she set fire to Durella Rosier who was then pregnant with Bellatrix and watched as she danced around. A joyous dance that Hermione had tried, once or twice, to replicate.

She sometimes thought she had lost her mind but then realized she was perfectly sane. It was the years of pain and solitude that had turned her like this. Instead of being insane she was a _comprehender_, she understood –she understood the way the world worked and how to save it from itself.

Come 1954 she had captured Lucius Malfoy as a babe. He was such a pretty child. She then cut up his _tiny wittle wimbs_ using a restaurant knife and spread his body parts all over the Ministry of Magic. But she saved his hair for herself, even as a babe his hair was a fine-looking white.

The funny part to all of this was that they never caught her, even when she used tweezers to skin a teenage Rabastan Lestrange alive or when she spooned out the eyeballs of a young Alecto Carrow and made her small brother eat them, _they never caught her_. Because there were so many spells that she used that hadn't been discovered yet, her wand wasn't even registered and she stuck with mostly household objects. The wards were so simple, nothing that the Brightest Witch of her Age couldn't crack.

"_You can't rid the world of all evil, "_Irma Crabbe had said while Hermione held an axe to her neck, _"There will always be evil to balance out the good."_

Hermione had shaken her head in pity. She had shaken it when Irma was alive and when she was dead. Irma didn't understand the world like Hermione did. The papers called her a monster or other fancy names but they didn't realize what she really was.

_She was a hero._

Hermione picked up her silver knife and wand, it was 1955 and about time to pay visit to her good friend, Fenrir Greyback.


	2. Peter Pettigrew

Spectrum

By: Consume

Now lengthened to a two-shot, and more will probably be added when I get bored.

A/N: I'm sorry but I couldn't help myself, oops. What do you think the fur actually is? I can tell you it's anything but faux!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the fantastic world created by Jo Rowling

March 1977

It was the 70's at the moment. The era of pivotal changes. The time of growing disillusionment of government, advancements in civil rights, increased influence of the women's movement, a heightened concern for the environment, and increased space exploration, The Beatles, drugs and sex… _a lot_ of sex.

Hermione was about 40 years old, she didn't know the exact age. Ever since she had stolen the Philosophers Stone (which was a long and complicated plan), her age got a bit confusing to keep up with. The Pureblood Ripper –a creative name which was given to Hermione –toned down his/her murders during the 1950s and very few people actually remembered what had occurred. Hermione had become an expert thief, powerful in her own right due to the fact she was magically adept and could manoeuvre her way throughout the muggle world to lay low. In 1971 Hermione had met with Albus Dumbledore when she realised she was running low on money and books. It was very much unnerving to see her previously dead headmaster and it took all her strength not to break down crying. But she was used to it. She needed a place to work; she was desperate and adept at teaching. That desperation and Occlumency was what fooled Dumbledore in the end.

"I'm very sorry to hear about your son, Mrs. Pettigrew," Hermione said while guiding the weary woman throughout her new home.

"…As am I, –and please call me Carissa."

Hermione nodded with a smile on her face "Then you must call me Hermione," she said in return before facing her back to the annoying woman,

Carissa Pettigrew was still grieving over the sudden "disappearance" over her son and today Hermione had become Carissa's own personal therapist. It almost made her regret killing Peter…_almost. _The boy had whimpered pathetically for hours, moaning over how his friends would find him –how James and his heroicness would burst through her home and free him from her attic.

Hermione rolled her eyes, still leading the woman through her home. _Her home…_She gazed at everything that belonged to her, small souvenirs from her missions over the years were scattered all around and Hermione would swear to it, every time she walked past Lucius Malfoy's hair, which was under anti-decaying charms, she felt a sort of euphoria fill her. Perhaps the hair still held magical powers –Hermione didn't care to find out.

"Hermione, what've you got here? –Wow! What fur is this made of? I've never felt anything like this!"

Hermione's lips twitched, "I must confess, it is not real fur," Hermione lied easily, "Just something I picked up in a muggle store."

"And this?" Carissa pointed to a stuffed rat in a cage, her voice was shaking and she had turned and interesting shade of green. Hermione watched Carissa under her sharp gaze as she reached into the cage and withdrew the large rat with trembling fingers.

"Also fake."

"You're lying, _Ms. Brown_," Carissa said with a watery voice.

Hermione's eyes hardened slightly. Her heart did not skip the clichéd beat; sweat did not form at her brows. It had been a long time since such trivial emotions had occurred and Hermione wasn't going to start such nonsense now.

"…I really don't understand what you are talking about_, _."

"NO!" Carissa shrieked, "Don't stand there –_Do not_ look me in the eye and lie to me. Do you know why I came here today Hermione?"

A manic grin was threatening to force its way onto Hermione's face, "I do not."

"I feel it. I can feel the death surrounding you, my son," Carissa whimpered and with shaky fingers, she tried to retrieve her wand from her wand pocket.

Hermione walked over to the woman, plucked to the wand out of her loose fingers and slipped it into her robe pocket.

"Don't cry," Hermione whispered as she watched Carissa drop onto the floor, drowning in her sobs and caressing the long dead rat held under a preserving charm.

"Don't cry," Hermione repeated crouching down next to Carissa wiping the tears from the woman's face with her cold fingers. She paid no mind to Carissa struggling to get away.

"I said: _Don't cry_."

Carissa stopped crying only small whimpers escaping her lips.

Hermione smiled, a warm motherly smile, "I know why you came here Carissa. You even know why you came here! You're a seer correct?" Hermione asked, even though she knew the answer.

Carissa didn't reply.

"A special type of seer, whose abilities are passed down to every 3rd generation female. I've researched you a lot, and how no one else has figured out your big, _big_ secret is a surprise. I bet your Peter didn't even know."

The look on her Carissa's face was all she needed.

"Y-You're right," she whispered.

Hermione shrugged, "I know."

"My son?"

"He's dead."

Carissa let out another whimper and Hermione had to restrain herself from not slapping her. Physical violence was never the key after all.

"It's not like you haven't accepted the fact and the thought of your son makes me want to vomit," Hermione said, leaning against the wall, "and not because his death was especially gruesome –"Carissa let out an unnecessary wailing sound that grated Hermione's ears, "…Anyways, I just wanted to say that it is very unfortunate that you created such an ugly child and that I wanted to console you with the fact that he died an ugly death!"

"YOU KILLED MY BABY –"

"I did," Hermione confirmed calmly.

"–YOU DESERVE TO BE PUNISHED! I –"

"–A hero will never be punished but perhaps one day I will but what will you do? Carissa, you are trapped in the inner depths of my _very_ large home," Hermione taunted with a childish smile, "You don't even remember the location of my home, thanks to the fidelius charm. You have no wand and wouldn't be able to fight me off the muggle way if you tried. That's the thing with purebloods though, they rely too much on magic and when that magic is gone…well they die."

Hermione twirled her curly hair between her fingers, "To be frank Carissa I hate your son. I loathe him with every fibre of my being! He was responsible for so many deaths –"

" –No Peter never…"

"Not yet he hasn't. Not yet," Hermione repeated, "but he will…and so many people will be affected."

"What are you? A seer?" Carissa asked in a whisper.

"No," Hermione walked to the desk situated at the corner and pulled out the drawer, "but you're a seer Carissa and we all know what the punishment of seeing is."

Carissa straightened her spine and looked at Hermione with deadly determination; she was ready to die. Hermione pulled out the intricately designed knife and felt a rush of power and nostalgia. She crouched next to Carissa whose attitude was yet to crack until Hermione placed the edge of the knife at the corner of her eye. Fear slipped through.

"I regret this."

She ploughed her way into Carissa's right eye socket, her screams like an intoxicating melody. Hermione closed her eyes briefly and ignored everything, the whimpers of Carissa and the blood running down her face at an alarming feel. She ignored it all so she could feel the power that she loved. With one more circular stroke as though using a spoon, the soft eye fell on the fur rug.

"Stop crying," Hermione said as Carissa she moved on to the second eye. Carissa was attempting to push her hands away weakly and thankfully, Hermione ignored it, had she responded to Carissa's movements she would have ruined her art piece. When the second eye joined the first on the rug Hermione smeared the blood on her fingers on the trembling Carissa's face. She painted and painted until Carissa had long passed out. She kept painting. Hermione made sure that Carissa's lips were covered with the beautifully hued lipstick.

"And the seer sees no more."


End file.
